Please be sure to read Part One of this story before starting this one.
In 2014, I was camped one night in an obscure spot on the west side of the Bates Mountains. As darkness fell, two BP vehicles came by the spot where my vehicle was parked in a wash. They stopped to talk to me and asked me why I was camped there, saying that the area was closed to the public. They were surprised when I told them that the closure had recently been lifted, and we talked for a while. They finally said they had to leave, as they had 3 undocumented border-crossers locked in the back of their vehicles and that they had to go process them. Five more times that night, BP vehicles stopped when they saw me close to the road. Word had spread by radio that I was camped there, and each of them was checking up on me. They suggested I carry a gun and talk to no one. “A dangerous area, filled with very bad people.”
A year later, I was camped near the old Pozo Nuevo Well when a young BP agent pulled up to my vehicle. I told him I was climbing in the area and that I was fine. He seemed concerned that I was alone, and told me to give a wide berth to anyone I saw. Bad Guys had been seen regularly in the area, many of them armed, some with fire-power as serious as an AK-47. They were working for the Mexican drug cartels and weren’t about to take any crap from anybody as they tried to smuggle loads of drugs into the country.
Back in 2005, I was doing some climbing in the area of Sweetwater Pass. Climbing finished, I was driving back out when I saw some commotion ahead – 2 vehicles and 5 men. I recognized the vehicles as BP. Stopping my truck, I got out in plain view of the agents, 2 of whom came walking up to me. They were highly suspicious, but were reassured when I told them I was an American citizen and doing some climbing in the area. They then recognized my truck from helicopter surveillance (I had been in the area a few other times during the past month) and we struck up a friendly conversation. It turns out that I had found them in the midst of arresting 3 indocumentados. I told them I had come upon cartel lookout sites on several mountaintops in the area. They wanted to exchange email addresses so I could send them coordinates of those spots, and so we did. After sending them a lot of information in the next days, I heard from them a week later. “Arrests have been made and items have been seized.”
We kept in touch. Several weeks passed. One particularly bad day when I almost died climbing in the 106-degree heat, I made it back out to my vehicle and was driving home along a paved road. Doing only 20 in a 55-mph zone, as I was still recovering from the incident, I noticed a vehicle approaching me from up ahead. It stopped when it reached me and lo and behold, it was the same 2 BP agents. I told them about my day – they said I looked in great distress and offered to get me to a hospital. I thanked them and told them I felt I could make it the hundred miles back home on my own. Well, I did and all turned out well. I’m happy to say that we were able to stay in touch for another 10 years.
About a decade ago, Jake and I decided to carry out a bold scheme to climb a dozen peaks in a mountain range where the roads were closed to all but law enforcement (normally, the BP would patrol the roads). We picked a time to head in when a government shutdown was in progress, so nobody bothered us the whole time we were in there, driving around with impunity. When it came time to leave the range, we drove a tired old road across the desert for 10 miles until we reached a BP station. As we approached, someone walked out to meet us. Yikes, we were caught in the act, driving those roads closed to the public. The agent, a supervisor, said that they had been following our progress for those 10 miles with a camera atop a tall tower. We apologized profusely, admitting that we had been climbing and driving all through the range for the past many days. “Not to worry”, we were informed – “We’re not here to enforce anybody else’s rules, we’re only here to catch Bad Guys.” (All of our clandestine driving had been in a national park). Thus began a working relationship that lasted years. That supervisor would let us drive many miles on roads absolutely off-limits to all civilian vehicles (only open to BP agents) so we could get in close to some delicious peaks, and in turn we would report all drug cartel activity we witnessed. As a result, on several occasions a BP chopper would swoop in and arrest Bad Guys, often at mountaintop lookouts. Eventually, there came a time when that rather-enlightened agent retired, and we didn’t push our luck by trying to forge such an arrangement with their replacement. It had been a good run, allowing us to climb many peaks otherwise quite out-of-reach.
In more recent years, I decided to get myself in to the northernmost end of the Granite Mountains for a little peakbagging. I had learned that the only road into the area had been closed to the public, but I thought I’d give it a shot anyway. As I neared the start of the aforementioned road, I spotted an unmarked vehicle coming north towards me. We stopped next to each other to talk. The man was dressed all in camouflage and told me that he was BP. Much relieved, I told him of my plans to drive the closed road to get to my peaks. He had no problem with that, saying that he’d spread the word of my plans and whereabouts at the morning muster so that other agents wouldn’t be alarmed at my presence out there. He went on to inform me that drug runners were carrying loads of amphetamines northward through a pass in the Mohawk Mountains only 6 miles from where we stood. Fortunately, I’d be able to avoid them as I moved around to pick off the 5 peaks I intended to climb.
One sultry October afternoon, as I descended a peak near O’Neill Pass, I saw a BP vehicle pull up to mine along the Camino del Diablo. When I got down, a female agent was waiting for me. I told her I was climbing, and she seemed relieved. She said she was the supervisor on duty at that time at Camp Grip, a remote BP station only a mile east of where we stood. I told her of my climbing in the area, and she gave me her email address to inform her of any illegal activity I might come across. It was another good working relationship established which lasted the next few years.
Three of us were heading into a remote part of the Sauceda Mountains to climb. While stopped to check our maps, we saw a plume of dust approaching us quickly along the gas pipeline road. Two BP vehicles soon arrived. We stood in plain view, hands exposed, while the agents approached us. I told them we were US citizens, climbing a few peaks, and that we had a permit to be there – when I showed it to them, they relaxed. When I showed them on our maps where we were going, they said that even they hadn’t driven that road for many years. Nobody traveled it any more as it was so remote and obscure – even Bad Guys didn’t use it. They wished us well and we went our separate ways.
Back in 2015, I spent a couple of days climbing in mid-September in Ryans Canyon. It was hotter than hell, and on my last peak I had to question why I was even there in the first place. Finally back down to my truck, I rehydrated and made ready to leave in the 102-degree heat. For some reason, instead of driving west out into the main part of the wash, I decided to drive east to start. Minutes later, I saw a man walking towards me. He looked to be in rough shape and not much of a threat. He came up to my driver’s side, and I cracked the window enough to talk to him. He begged me for water. I had some to spare, so I gave him a full gallon. Thanking me, he then walked back the way he had come.
The whole thing seemed wrong, so after a minute I followed him in my truck and soon arrived at the spot where we found his companion who was lying in the shade and unable to walk because of blisters. These two guys, Francisco and Santos, had crossed the Mexican border 4 days earlier and covered almost 80 miles to get this far. By now, all they had was the clothes on their backs. I gave them another gallon of water and some food.
It seemed appropriate to tell them more about where they were – I knew they didn’t have a clue. I told them they were in the middle of the Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range, and a few miles to the north of their position was a broad expanse of desert where they dropped bombs and practiced air-to-ground target practice from A-10 aircraft. It’s a well-known fact that indocumentados often travel without maps, having only hearsay from others back home to rely upon. When I told them that the freeway, the goal they all shoot for, was probably at least four days walk through the mountains for an able-bodied person with plenty of food and water, I could see by the look on their faces that their hopes of reaching the promised land visibly diminished right then and there. It was hard to know how they’d react, but I then told them that if they wanted, I could call La Migra and they would be rescued very soon. Further, I explained to them that they would not be harmed in any way but would be treated with respect, and of course they would be deported back to Mexico straight away. Without any hesitation, they said that that’s what they wanted, for the Border Patrol to come and get them. I further explained that I was not allowed to transport them myself, but if they stayed right where they were and didn’t move, I would relay their position to the BP and rescue could happen within hours. Yes, that was all they wanted, to be taken out of there as soon as possible.
I emphasized that if they wanted that help, they couldn’t move from where they were. They agreed, promising to stay put. I left, and had to drive several miles before I could get a cell-phone connection. I told the BP agent at the Ajo station their exact location and he said they’d get a rescue started. After driving 11 more miles across the desert, I finally reached the BP check-point along that stretch of highway. I was told that they had already dispatched a helicopter to verify their location, and a vehicle was heading in to pick them up. So Francisco and Santos did not die that day – hopefully none the worse for wear, they had an exciting story to tell their families back home.
Stay tuned for the next chapter of my Tales – I’ve left the exciting ones for last.